‘We was of an age, you see, miss. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. ” She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. But at the beginning of the affray, when he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to remark his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but because he had another object in view. But I shan't let him off thus. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter.
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